The Other Duke (2 page)

Rafe shifted, wishing he could rip off his jacket and the black armband tied like a tourniquet around his bicep, untie the cravat choking him and race out of the parlor. Everyone in the room seemed to take their turn staring at him. More than half had not even attended the short service at the church and the burial afterward. They had merely descended upon Cyril’s home to eat his food and drink the wine that now flowed around them.

“Good God, this is a nightmare,” Crispin said as he sidled up to Rafe and handed him a glass of wine. “Is this what life as a duke will be?”

Rafe downed the drink in one swig. “It seems so. Did you know four people have come up to
congratulate
me? At Cyril’s funeral. As if I won a hand of cards against him or some such nonsense. I didn’t care for the man, but he’s dead. It’s entirely unseemly.”

“You have influence that comes with the blasted title,” Crispin said with a shrug. “And everyone knows you’ve brought money to the equation too. They will be kowtowing to you for years.”

Rafe shuddered. “I hate the thought.”

“What will you do, abandon your post?” Crispin said with a half-smile for his brother. “That would only add to the reputation we currently hold.”

Rafe tried to smile back at the teasing, but couldn’t quite manage it. “It is one thing to gamble until dawn at the Donville Masquerade or drink and streak naked through St. James Park or even bed a dozen willing ladies. But to walk away from the title? It would go too far. I wouldn’t do that to Mama or Annabelle. They suffer enough for our notorious reputations.”

Crispin cocked his head as if he didn’t understand the words coming from Rafe’s mouth. “They don’t complain.”

Rafe shook his head. “I believe Mama’s occasional sighs and Annabelle’s pointed glares should be registered as complaints.”

“And what of your bride? Will
she
complain?” Crispin asked.

Rafe scanned the room. “I have not yet seen her.”

“Why wasn’t she at the funeral and burial?” his brother asked.

“Someone was going on about women’s delicate constitutions,” Rafe said with a roll of his eyes. “I also heard whispers that Aunt Hesper was too hysterical to attend her only child’s services and insisted that Miss McPhee not go either due to some jealousy. There are many who are anxious to tell me that Hesper does not care for her son’s once-future bride.”

Crispin lifted his brows. “That may count as a mark in the girl’s favor, if I recall Aunt Hesper. That part of the family cut us off when I was still young, but I do remember her as not the kindest woman. Still, she is not our interest. What else do they say about Miss McPhee?”

“Only that she—”

He was cut off when a side door to the parlor opened and a young woman entered on the arm of an older man. She had honey blonde hair that was pulled back in a severe chignon, but the tight, plain hairstyle only served to highlight her face. It was heart-shaped, with lustrous, fair skin. She had full, pink lips and pale blue eyes that reminded him of icy vistas. She was wearing full black, and he realized with a start that
this
was Miss McPhee.

“What do they say about her?” his brother said, shaking his head.

Rafe swallowed. “That she is the most beautiful woman in London,” he said, staring at her because he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Crispin followed his gaze and his eyes widened. “Is that the lady in question?”

Rafe managed a nod. “I think it must be.”

Crispin let out a low whistle. “Then I would say the gossip is not an overstatement.”

Rafe shook his head. “No. It is not.”

He had seen many beautiful women before, of course. He had been with them in virtually every way imaginable. Normally, he was not attracted to cool propriety or even women of rank at all. They came with too many entanglements unless they were widowed and as anxious to remain free as he himself was.

But looking at this woman, he was seized by a sudden, powerful jolt of desire that seemed to work its way through his entire body and settle most uncomfortably between his legs.

He couldn’t explain the reaction. He could only assume it was because of the shock of the past few days and the knowledge that he could not escape a future with Miss McPhee unless something entirely unexpected happened, that encouraged his body to behave in such a fashion.

“When you meet with her, will you drool all over her like you are now?” his brother asked.

Rafe forced himself to stop looking at his cousin’s fiancée and glared at his brother. “Shut up.”

“I’m just wondering if that will be the main part of your plan today,” Crispin continued, his lip tilting up in amusement at Rafe’s expense.

“I do not wish to discuss this,” Rafe said through clenched teeth.

His brother shrugged. “Well, you’ll surely be talking about it sooner rather than later, even if it is not with me.”

Rafe looked back across the room and found that Miss McPhee’s father had seemed to notice him. The man said something to his daughter and then began to stride across the room toward Rafe and Crispin. Rafe straightened his shoulders and prepared for the worst.

“It seems you are correct, Crispin. Which I know you love to hear. Why don’t you step away, as it seems I cannot avoid what is about to happen.”

Serafina had always particularly hated the parlor where the mourners now gathered to eat and drink and mull over Cyril’s life, as well as gossip behind her back about his death. Just two days after the accident and the details of that morning’s events had already begun to spread, even reaching her ears. She blushed as she tried not to think about them too closely.

All she knew was that she felt sorrier for the whore who had been riding in the phaeton with Cyril and met the same fate he had than she did for her fiancé. That fact left a sour taste in her mouth.

Across the room, she caught a glimpse of her once-future mother-in-law. Hesper was standing with a woman Serafina did not know. The two talked together for a moment, with the dowager duchess’s face angry and brittle. Then the dowager motioned toward her dismissively. Serafina turned away with a blush. From the whispers of the other mourners and the glares from Hesper, it seemed Her Grace almost blamed Serafina for Cyril’s death. Which was preposterous to the core.

Before she could find a way to excuse herself for a moment and get some air on the terrace, she felt a hand on her elbow and turned to find her father at her side.

“Come,” he said, gripping her arm a bit roughly. Their eyes met and she saw his determination, as if he thought she might resist. In truth, the thought had crossed her mind.

“Where?” she asked even though she had guessed what was about to happen and had little choice but to stagger in the direction that he pulled her.

“To meet the new Duke of Hartholm,” he said, his voice and face heavy with grim resolve.

Serafina found herself yanking against him as sudden terror shot through her.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want to. Please don’t make me.”

Her father glared down at her. “There is no more escaping this now than there was before, child. Come along or I shall drag you from this room kicking and screaming, no matter how it looks.”

Serafina stiffened. The world, or at least her world, was taking enough pleasure with the matter of the death of her fiancé. A fit at his funeral would make her even more a topic of gossip.

And since it would do no good to refuse, she set her shoulders and followed her father from the room of her own volition. As they walked through Cyril’s twisting halls, she drew a few long breaths. Even if she was screaming inside, she had to look calm. Cyril had taught her that bitter lesson very well, and she intended to use it against his cousin just as she had against him once upon a time.

“He is awaiting us here,” her father said, pushing open the door to Cyril’s office. Serafina forced herself not to flinch as she entered the room with its richly paneled walls and tall bookcases filled with tomes Cyril had never touched in his life.

Come to think of it, Serafina hated this chamber as much as the parlor.

A man stood at the fire and, as her father shut the door, he turned. Serafina caught her breath.

She had never met Raphael Flynn, the new Duke of Hartholm and the cousin of her late fiancé. He wasn’t titled and moved on the outside fringes of the Upper Ten Thousand. What had been said about him were murmurings of a reputation that seemed to both irritate and intrigue those in her circles. He was rich but no stranger to scandal and repeated behavior that thwarted Society’s many rules.

Even Cyril had hardly spoken of his cousin in the past except to malign him, which softened her to the man considerably.

And then there were the rumors of his intensely handsome good looks. Now that she stared at him, leaning on the mantel with a haphazard nonchalance that didn’t reflect the importance of the moment, she couldn’t deny that he
was
utterly beautiful. An Adonis. There was no other way to describe him.

He had tousled blond hair that was a bit too long for current fashion. His face was a work of art, with a hard, angled jaw, full lips and bright blue eyes that seemed to be fashioned after the Mediterranean Sea in some of her favorite paintings. He was an angel, just like the one he had been named after, only it seemed this man would be more like a fallen angel.

But a fallen angel could still be very powerful and dangerous. She wiped thoughts of his pleasing countenance from her mind, refusing to be moved by such foolishness.

Her father stepped forward, holding out a hand to him. “Your Grace, thank you again for meeting with us. This must be a difficult time for you and your family. Such a loss, such a terrible loss.”

Serafina barely held back a snort of derision, both for her father’s sentiment and for his utterly ridiculous glad-handing of the new duke.

To her surprise, the handsome man ignored her father. He pushed past him, coming toward her instead. She froze in her spot, held there by surprise and distraction caused, yet again, by his good looks.

“Miss McPhee, I presume,” the duke said as he stopped in front of her, looking down with an unreadable expression.

She swallowed, trying hard to remember how to form coherent words, and somehow managed a nod. “Y-Yes.”

He smiled at her stammering admission, the kind of smile that had likely seduced many with its dazzling display. He reached out and took her hand, sending warmth through her dark gloves and up her arms like he was lightning in a summer storm.

“I am Rafe Flynn, Miss McPhee. And you and I seem to have a problem. One I’m certain we can solve if we put our minds to it.”

Rafe knew when he was being charming. It was a skill he had honed and mastered over the years, turning the power of charisma to his advantage. It had certainly never failed to help navigate a difficulty or seduce a lady. Or seduce a lady who was difficult.

But to his surprise, Miss McPhee withdrew her hand from his with a cool frown.

“I’m afraid you are no longer Rafe Flynn, Your Grace,” she said, her tone as chilly as her expression. “At least not in the eyes of the world. As for our ‘problem,’ as you put it, even if you reputation tells you that you may have it all, in this case you cannot avoid the inevitable. We must wed, despite my own desires.”

Rafe arched a brow. Her reluctance he had expected, but not to this depth. But then, perhaps she had loved Cyril.

He looked her up and down a second time, from a closer proximity than had been achievable in the ballroom. Her beauty was only enhanced by their closeness. He thought of Cyril and his slick hair and fat gut held in by a corset. Could a lovely creature such as this one truly have feelings for a man like
him
?

Before he could think more on the subject, Mr. McPhee rushed forward and all but shoved his daughter out of the way.

“Serafina!” he said, his tone sharp as a blade. “Watch your tongue with the duke.”

Rafe looked her over another time. Serafina. Her given name had not been present in any of the marital contract documents, and now it rolled in his head. It was a very unique name, but beautiful.

It fit her perfectly.

“Step aside, girl, and let me discuss this with the duke,” Mr. McPhee continued.

Rafe pursed his lips at McPhee’s tone. His arrogance and dismissal of his daughter irritated Rafe beyond measure.

“Why should Serafina step aside? This topic surely affects her more than it does you.”

Her father’s mouth dropped open and he let out a few incoherent, flustered sounds. To Rafe’s utter pleasure, Serafina turned her head, smothering a smile at her father’s reaction to being set down. She was even prettier when she smiled, it seemed.

“The documents are quite clear, Your Grace,” Mr. McPhee blustered when he had regained some level of composure.

Any pleasure Rafe had experienced when making Serafina smile vanished. Every time someone called him “Your Grace” it brought his now-nightmarish future into clearer view and made his stomach turn anew.

“I suppose they must be,” he responded with a sigh.

“You
will
wed,” Mr. McPhee insisted, his voice rising.

Rafe stared at the man. He had learned a little about McPhee since hearing of Cyril’s death and the shocking fact that he might have to marry Serafina. Rumor had it the man was rich and accustomed to getting his way, but he also was grasping, desperate to be linked to an important title like the one Rafe now reluctantly held.

McPhee wanted to get what he desired, even at the obvious exclusion of his daughter’s happiness. Despite knowing his fate was likely sealed, as Serafina had said it was, Rafe didn’t like the idea of giving in so easily.

“We’ll see,” he said, enjoying the flush of frustration that came to McPhee’s cheeks. “This is certainly not the place to discuss the matter, at any rate. I will call on you tomorrow and we will talk it over in detail then.”

“Your Gr—” McPhee began, but Rafe held up a hand to silence him as he turned toward Serafina. She was staring at him in what seemed to be wonder, as if no one went head to head with her father and it had made him more interesting to her.

Noting that fact, Rafe smiled.

“Until tomorrow, Serafina,” he said softly. “And my condolences on your loss.”

The serene look on her face faltered a bit. In fact, Rafe could have sworn he saw her flinch ever so slightly at his words. But then she gave a cool nod of dismissal.

He exited the room without giving in to a strange desire to look back at her, but as he strode down the hall to gather his family and say their farewells to his Aunt Hesper, he couldn’t help thinking of Serafina over and over. She was a hard one to read and that interested him even more than her intense beauty did.

Serafina kicked off her slippers and tucked her feet beneath her on the settee. As Emma handed her a cup of tea, she smiled up at her friend, then watched her take a seat in a chair across from her. Once they were both settled, Emma leaned forward.

“Now that we are finally alone, why don’t you tell me about it?”

Serafina shifted. “About what?” she asked, though she knew exactly to what Emma referred.

Raphael Flynn.

Her friend arched a brow. “The weather,” she said, her tone dry as a desert.

Serafina smiled despite herself. “It is quite warm this summer and thankfully there has been little rain,” she offered. “But I think perhaps you would rather hear about the funeral gathering and my meeting with the mysterious new Duke of Hartholm.”